31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 14

October 15, 2012 By
today brought clear skies
and warm temperatures.
Our small group did its monthly thing,
gathering at our home.
And on this fall day, October 14, it was still more 
than warm enough to meet in the yard. 

These are such good people,
so dear to us,
and we enjoy our 2-hour window
for sharing and prayer,
sipping cool (or warm) beverages,
enjoying a few sweet or savory treats. 
Every one of us carries around
some points of concern and struggle;
every one of us finds moments
of grace and redemption
even in the middle of the messy.

The theme of our morning worship
carried over into our conversation a little bit.
We looked at the story of the rich young ruler
and the call to surrender,
to let go of all those things
that bind us and keep us
from fully following Jesus. 

I don’t like that story very much. 
It hits a little too close to home, you know?
But today, I liked it just a bit better.
We pondered the line,
“Jesus looked at him and loved him,”
in juxtaposition with the 
end of the story –
when the young man sadly walks away. 

Ever wondered why Jesus
didn’t do what we might be likely to do?
Soft-soap the deal?
Make a different offer?
Do everything in our power to
change this potential great-leader-for-the-kingdom’s mind? 

Yeah, me, neither. 

But today, I did think about it.
A lot.
And here’s what I’ve come to:
Jesus looks at us and loves us;
Jesus invites us into a full-bodied relationship
     of community and action;
Jesus loves us too much to either force us to follow
     or to back-pedal about what it might cost us to do so. 

So, as I cleaned up the kitchen
after they left this afternoon,
as I rested and caught up on Facebook,
as I took my walk and spied
this glory on the Carpinteria foothills –
I asked God to help me to want to let go.
To let go of . . .
     how much I love living where I live;
     how much I adore my grandchildren;
     how controlling I can feel inside,
          wanting to ‘fix’ everyone’s problems,
          not trusting that God’s got it – no matter the outcome.
Because we all have those things that trap us,
     and bind us,
          and keep us 
from becoming a fully devoted follower of Jesus. 

What are yours?
 “Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
Let the earth and all living things join in.
Let the rivers clap their hands in glee!
Let the hills sing out their songs of joy before the LORD.
For the LORD is coming to judge the earth.
He will judge the world with justice,
and the nations with fairness.”
Psalm 98:7-9, NLT

Joining with a few friends tonight – Michelle, Jen, Ann, Laura and L.L. to name a few:
 
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Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, biblical reflection, community, God's gifts, personal journey

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 7

October 8, 2012 By
Have you ever been hungry for something
and didn’t know it
until you ate,
and found relief? 

Tonight, we held our first Taize worship service,
and I was filled with the sweet and savory
presence of the Lord. 

If you are unfamiliar with Taize, I write out for you here the descriptive paragraph found at the top of tonight’s worship folder:

A Taize service is a worship service of sung prayer and contemplation. The distinguishing marks include repetition and silence. Taize style prayer is repetitive with simple musical lines and core biblical texts that can be sung by a whole assembly. The assembly is to immerse itself in the simple but profound harmonies and let itself be carried by this sung prayer. Silence is perhaps the second most important aspect of this particular prayer practice. It is simply holding oneself in the presence of God and letting Christ, through the Holy Spirit, pray in us. The simple, repetitive prayers and an ample silence are means for the gathered assembly to “hear the Word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patient endurance.” (Luke 8:15)  

Candles, candles everywhere,
soft light spreading,
flicking
into dark corners,
lighting our way into the room. 

Thirty-five people, 
sitting spread out in the space,
two-thirds of them
under the age of 25.

Gentle singing, sweet harmonies, simple words . . .

“Come and fill our hearts with your peace,
you alone, O Lord, are holy…” 

“In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, 
in the Lord I will rejoice!” 

“Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten. 
Those who seek God never go wanting. 
God alone fills us.” 

A three-fold reading of Mark 10:13-16,
a lectio passage that spoke 
to the deepest places in my heart tonight.
“…that he might touch [the children]…
and he took them up in his arms, 
laid his hands on them, 
and blessed them.” 

“The kingdom of God is justice 
and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. 
Come, Lord, and open in us the gates of your kingdom.” 

A penitential psalm . . .

“O Lord, hear my prayer. O Lord, hear my prayer:
when I call, answer me…” 

Space to make silent intercession for others. 


And then . . .

. . . this . . . 


Our worship leader led us in the refrain, 
“Adoremus Te Domine,”  
and then he chanted, 
very simply, 
these lines,
in between each simple singing of that phrase:

“Christ the Lord, you became poor and you offer the kingdom of heaven to the poor of the earth.”

“O Lord, gentle and humble of heart, you reveal a new world to all who abandon themselves; we receive of your fullness.” 

“O Lord, you fell prostrate on the ground, and you show us a path of consolation in our distress; you are the joy no one can take from us.” 

“O Lord, you shed your blood, and you give the cup of life to seekers after justice; you quench every thirst.” 

“O risen Lord, you showed yourself to the disciples and you pluck from our flesh our hearts of stone; we shall see you face to face.” 

“O Lord, you divest the powerful and clothe peacemakers in festal robes; you transform us into your likeness.” 

“O Lord, first of the living, you welcome into the kingdom all who die for you; we dwell in your love.” 

Sung liturgy. 

That’s what I was hungry for, 
starving for, 
in fact. 
And I didn’t even know it . . .
until I heard it. 
Until I took it in. 
listening,
eyes closed,
singing the refrain,
holding my just-lit Christ candle. 

Saved by beauty, indeed . . . indeed. 

As the service ended,
we each took our candles,
placing them in the white sand 
surrounding the 
One light that lit us all, 
a circle of flickering flame. 

And the melting candle wax
dripped onto my finger,
stinging, 
biting,
as I moved my one, 
lone light
to join the circle.

Because sometimes
to step into
the circle of light,
we have to burn a little.
Sometimes
we have to let ourselves
drop out of our
carefully shaped 
plastic holders 
right into the dust of the earth.

Oh, that the Flame would shine,
brilliant and true,
through the gathered Body –
in this place,
for this time.

Joining tonight with Michelle, Jen, Ann, Jenn – and with Laura and Laura this week, too:

 

 
MercyMondays150


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Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, community, Music, The Church, worship

5-Minute Friday: GRASP – A Photo Essay

September 28, 2012 By
I am sitting on a porch, in a beautiful wooden rocking chair, overlooking the Frio River in the Hill Country of Texas. Gathered at a Writers’ Retreat are about 70 people, here to learn more about the creative process, to eat well, watch a little rain fall onto a drought-prone stretch of chapparal, and to marvel at the goodness of God. I am at Laity Lodge for the second year in a row, delighted to be among such good company, with time to laugh, converse, think–even to write. So, this week’s 5-Minute Friday will look a little different than most. I’ll write first and then give you a 
brief photographic overview of our trip out to the canyon yesterday. 
 Please come on over to Lisa-Jo’s fine blog, where over 200 folks join in the party each and every week. We are to write for 5 minutes, no editing, no over-thinking -just whatever comes out of our fingertips. It’s great fun and often more than a little revealing.
Five Minute Friday
GO:

It’s hard to get from Santa Barbara CA to San Antonio TX.
It requires an overnight stay near LAX,
getting up at 3:45 a.m.,
going through airport security before one is fully conscious,
flying one hour to Phoenix,
walking miles through the airport to another terminal
to board another plane for 2 hours to your final destination.
Then you wait for your van-load of compatriots,
some of whom you actually might recognize,
and drive for 2 hours away from civilization
to this amazing place.
I’ve been here once before,
so I know what to expect.
It’s an enriching, challenging,
welcoming experience to land in this space.
And I cannot quite grasp the words to say why.
We’re singing with a a grammy-winning worship leader,,
listening to a PhD in neuro-biology tag-teaming with 
a film critic, learning how to write a good sentence
and just sort of spreading out on the inside of our souls.
Funny stories, serious questions, shared struggles – 
all of it makes for an enriching, encouraging experience.
There is freedom in this place,
there is welcome.
There is beauty, silence, companionship when desired.
And there is a sense of God’s smile everywhere you look.
I sat on a bench by a jogging trail early this morning
and just listened for about 5 minutes.
Do you know what I hear?
Nothing.
Only a far away bird song.

THAT’s what this place provides that 

so few places on this earth can – 

the sound of good silence.

STOP

Driving away from the airport.
The contrast of brilliant light and pouring rain off in the distance seen 360 degrees around in Texas.
What you might expect to find in Texas actually can be found in Texas.
Something about these mailboxes seems representative of the wide open spaces and ranch land of this part of the world.
Turning off the highway to the dirt road leading down to the HEB Foundation Camps.
A lovely harbinger of good things ahead.
Reaching the river road that leads to Laity Lodge
This is the only way in and it’s remarkable.
The rainbow almost spanning the canyon carved by the Frio.
Looking out over the Frio right after our arrival at about 6 last night.
Hopeful reflections of beauty to come. Thank you, Lord.
Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, Blogging, community, personal journey, Photo Essay, Writing, Writing Retreats

To the Penny…

September 27, 2012 By

Circle round, friends. I have a sweet story to tell.
And that open chest, filled with dress-up clothes 
is what inspires its telling this night.
It’s a bit circuitous, but truly rich with 
wonder and grace
and it happened at –
well, what can I say?
It happened at exactly the right time. 

I had been at my job as Associate Pastor for about eight months, 
when I overheard an off-hand remark
made by our Senior Pastor,
 a man I greatly admired and
was delighted to be working with in my first-ever
paid ministry position.
And this is what he said:
“Well, all the stats tell you that you’ll know a new
hire is a good hire if you can see that
they have ‘raised’ their own salary
and it shows up in the general budget funds
by the end of their first year.”

Gasp.

Earn my own salary? 
Have it show up in the budget?
By doing what, exactly?
I was scrambling to learn who people were,
how they worked together – or didn’t work together.
I was preaching a few times,
teaching a few times,
making lots of house and hospital calls,
planning small groups,
meeting with individuals and couples for counseling.
How was any of that
going to raise money for the budget? 

And then . . .

One afternoon, a favorite client of my husband’s,
a truly beautiful, older woman who was
self-confident, gregarious and very out-spoken 
called him up and said:
“What’s this I hear about you making a move to Santa Barbara? 
You know I’ve just moved up here, too, don’t you?
Tell me all about this please!! 
Why are you here?“

So he told her.
“Well, you see, it’s like this…
my wife is a pastor.”
“She is what? A pastor, did you say?
Does she preach?”
“Sometimes,” Dick said.
“She’s an associate and she’s part-time, so
it’s just a few times a year.”
“Well!” She bellowed. “I want to know the next time
she’s up in the pulpit, because I’m coming myself
to check her out.”

And come, she did.
All 5 feet 10 inches of Pasadena socialite that she was,
garbed in a bright chartreuse wool cape,
straight from the runways of Milan.
She had been active in an Episcopal parish
in Pasadena but hadn’t yet found a church home 
in this new community.
When she came to hear me preach, 
she walked into the back door of the gymnasium 
we were using as a worship center, 
looked at the beautiful wooden cross 
we had mounted on the long wall 
(between the basketball hoops), 
genuflected, crossed herself, and sat down in the back row. 
Like any good Episcoplian would.
And she did that every single time she came.

That first time, she came up afterwards,
effusive in her praise, just delighted
that her financial advisor’s wife
was a preacher.
She introduced us to a few other people in her social circle,
and went out of her way to be kind and inclusive. 

“Whenever you’re up there,” she said, 
“I’m gonna be down here.” 

And she was.

She called the church office, and got the schedule.
And just about every time I preached for the next 10 years,
she was there, sitting in the back row. 

But here’s the strange and wonderful part.
Are you ready?
That first Christmas, 
on the first anniversary of my very first day of work,
she called her investor guy – that would be my husband – 
and said something like this, entirely of her own volition:
“You know, I would really like my annual gift this year to
go to that Covenant Church where your wife works.
That’s a great group of people over there
and I’d like to support what they’re doing.”

Can you guess what happened?
Her gift, 
to the penny, 
was the exact amount of  my salary –
for the entire year.
And for every year that she lived after that.
Can you imagine how encouraging this was
to a very wet-behind-the-ears,
brand-spankin’ new pastor? 
To this day, I give thanks to God for this
gift of love and grace in my life.
First of all,
for this delightful, loving and faithful woman.
And then for her serendipitous generosity.
Her gift came at exactly the right time,
and was exactly the right amount.

And I had forgotten this lovely truth until one night
last month when we entertained several small girls.
They opened the dress-up chest,
and floating out of it came some of this 
loving friend’s beautiful clothes. 

When she died, I had also become acquainted
with one of her sons – had married him and his wife,
in fact. And one day, as we were driving back to 
Santa Barbara from a time away, my phone rang.
He said, “Mom’s in the hospital, and it doesn’t look good
at all. But don’t come – because I know she would not
want you to see her looking like this.”
Gently, I assured him that I would be there,
and we headed straight to the hospital before going home.
That time of prayer and anointing and farewell
was one of the most beautiful experiences of my pastoral life.
And the two sons who were with her were
more grateful than they knew to have
the prayers of the church prayed over their mom as she died.

After her service,
the son and his new wife brought over a truckload 
of her clothing and costume jewelry,
donating it to a rummage sale we were having
to raise funds for student ministries.
I bought some of her beautiful and brightly-colored clothes,
including that chartreuse cape,
and put them lovingly in the dress-up box for my grand-girls –
who were yet to be born at the time!

Because, somehow, 
I just knew they would love them. 
And every time, they wrap themselves in
one of her diaphanous gowns,
I smile.
Both of our girls are going to be quite tall, you see.
Both of them are blessed with dramatic,
confident personalities.
And one day soon,
I’ll tell them about my friend,
the one who blew through my life
like a gift on the Wind of God
and graced me with her love.

OF COURSE, I’m joining this one with Jennifer Lee’s God-Incidences meme,
and also with Ann, Duane and Emily – whose amazing book releases TODAY.
If you love someone with an eating disorder, this book is one you should have on your shelf – it is terrific. “Chasing Silhouettes,” by Emily Wierenga
 

 




Filed Under: community, family, God's gifts, Marriage, memoir, personal journey, Santa Barbara, Wonderings in the Word

The Call to be Wise – A Prayer for Worship

September 24, 2012 By

It’s been a while. Twenty two months, to be exact. Twenty-two months ince I’ve prayed in public, in a Sunday morning worship service. I am rusty, and I am nervous. Really nervous.

We’ve been studying the book of James this fall, trying to discover what this small book might teach us about living the life of a disciple, a disciple who makes disciples. This small epistle is part of the lectionary readings as we cycle through the last weeks of Ordinary Time and this week’s reading is from chapter 3, verses 13-18 – words on wisdom, true wisdom, godly wisdom. And, of course, the kind of ‘wisdom’ that is far from godly.

The gospel reading in Matthew 10 includes the words of Jesus, sending the disciples out on their own for the first time, encouraging them to be ‘wise as serpents…’ Oh  – and we’ll be singing, “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise,” just before the prayer. 
Will you join me as we pray together this morning? 

It is good to praise you, Almighty God.
It is good to sing loudly, tapping our feet – at least
on the inside – joining right in with those angels,
the ones who are adoring you,
the ones veiling their sight.
Because even the angels cannot look directly
at you, O Lord of Glory.
They cannot behold your splendid and radiant Being,
because you are just  . . . too much.
Too much for them,
and surely too much for us,
“frail children of dust” that we are. 

It’s hard for us to even begin to wrap our minds around 
the Truth that is you,
the Immensity of you.
You are the Wild and Untamable Source
of all that is beautiful,
mysterious,
awe-inspiring,
and powerful –
in this universe;
on our planet;
in these bodies, which we treat with such casual neglect;
this natural world in which we live – 
this world that speaks to us of 
your creative genius and
your overwhelming attention to detail.

And yet . . . you are the very same God who 
guides the likes of us, day by day,
and who invites and encourages us 
to join you in the ongoing renewal of creation. 

So, YES!!
It is good to praise you,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
God of Immensity,
Son of Humility,
Spirit of Comfort and Conviction.
Help us to do this always,
to offer our songs,
our words,
our hearts
in joyful thanksgiving for who you are,
and how you are working to revive and restore and refresh
all that you have created,
most especially each and every one of us. 

And some of us truly need to find that refreshment this day, O Lord. 
We’re wondering what’s coming next –
feeling overloaded at school,
maybe worried about our jobs, or our children, or both.
Some of us are waiting on doctor’s diagnoses,
some of us have already heard hard news.
Some of us wonder if we’ll have enough money to cover the month,
some of us have plenty of money, but not much joy in it. 
Some of us are young and curious, 
often thinking we know more than we actually do.
And some of us are old and failing, 
not sure if we know anything at all. 
Some of us are worried about a lot of things,
and getting plenty sick of worrying.
And some of us are just plain sick.
Sick and tired of all kinds of things and wondering
where you are. And even there, Lord God,
even there, it is good to praise you.
Maybe even especially there. 

So, Only Wise God,
will you help us to become wise people
who know how to praise you well? 
Because wise people are people who know how to say thank you,
even when we have to stretch pretty hard to do it.
Wise people are people who do good deeds,
even when that’s the last thing we feel like doing.
Wise people are people who don’t give in to 
bitterness, or cynicism, or sarcasm,
but choose words that honor, and uplift and encourage.
Wise people are naturally generous,
offering what they have to others,
sharing the gifts they’ve received.
Wise people are people who look like the folks Jesus is
talking about in our Gospel lesson for the morning. 
People who are ‘wise as serpents, and innocent as doves.’ 
Yes, Lord – that’s exactly who we’d like to be. 

But we readily admit that we are not all that wise a lot of the time. 

So, will you remind us to say we’re sorry,
to admit our frailties and flaws
and to consistently seek to grow into the people
you have in mind for us to be? 
O Lord, if everyone in this world who says they are a 
follower of yours would do this –
if we would all admit we’re far from perfect,
if we would ask for help when we need it,
and if we would seek to be wise –
what a different place this old planet of ours could be! 

So, begin with us, will you, please?
Soften our hearts,
open our wallets,
give us words of peace to offer,
wherever we go, whomever we meet.
And we’ll end right where we began,
by praising your Holy Name,
O, God Only Wise.
Amen. 

Joining with Michelle’s Sunday invitation and Jennifer’s sisterhood:





Filed Under: biblical reflection, church year, community, prayer, Public Prayers

An African Journey: Post Five – The Very Best Part

September 13, 2012 By
There we were, minding our own business,
getting to know this new country,
these new friends,
this new work . . .
and then the world shifted.
Well, maybe not the entire world,
just our tiny corner of it.
And it took a while to sink in, too.
On the 4th of June, 1967, 
I wrote to my mom and dad and said this:
“I have been feeling lousy the last 2-3 weeks.
Attacks of nausea at odd times, extreme sleepiness
and a late period. I am going to see the doctor next week
to find out what the trouble is. Will let you know the results.” 

What can I say?
I was young and . . . naive? 
Let’s just say it . . . 
I was plain old stupid about the process of reproduction.
Yes, thank you very much, I did know how it happened.
I just didn’t have a clue what happened when it happened.
So . . . stupid?
Yeah, that about covers it.
My mother just laughed hysterically when she read that letter,  
and her diagnosis arrived about the same time the doctor’s did:
you are two months pregnant.
About four months along, sipping a Coke on the Garden Route in South Africa.
My husband’s parents and younger sister came to visit us and took us on a wonderful three week trip to game parks and other beautiful places south of our home. I will write another journal entry about our travels to other parts of Africa while we lived in Zambia.
About 6 months along in these two faded black & white photos.
So. We were pregnant.
DEEP breath.
And so, the thinking and the wondering and the planning
and the gathering began.
My doctor was an American,
a member of the denomination with which we served,
and his work and his hospital were 40 miles away,
over a very, VERY bumpy dirt road, out in the bush.
I saw him three times during my pregnancy.
My everything- you-wanted-to-know-about pregnancy reading was limited, 
to say the least.
A friend who was a nurse had an old ob-gyn textbook,
filled with pictures and descriptions of 
all that can go wrong in pregnancy and delivery.
Lovely.
Fortunately, there were women living in our 
neighborhood who had borne babies before.
In fact, over the next four months,
four other women announced that they, too, were pregnant.
It was an epidemic!
Those of us who were newbies learned from the old hands,
and somehow, we muddled through.
Our baby was due on January 9, 1968,
and I worked as a teacher through the end of the term in
mid-December, grateful for papers to grade,
students to love and exams to prepare.
We found treasures to be repaired and painted,
I created curtains out of fabric bought in our town,
friends sent me maternity clothes and baby clothes
from home, carefully folded into 9×12 envelopes.
Over the next few months,
the reality began to sink in:
we were going to be parents.
Yikes.
January 9th came and went.
January 19th came and went.
My 23rd birthday on January 23rd came and went.
I lay on the bed, weeping, convinced that I would have this oversized basketball in my body for the rest of my life.
At about 6:30 in the morning on Sunday, January 28th,
I woke up with a strong back ache.
I went into our bathroom/laundry room and
sat on the edge of the tub, folding clean towels.
I remember being overwhelmed with
the realization that my life was going to change
forever
by the end of that day.

I was, however, still stupid.
I stood in the middle of the lawn at about 9:30 a.m.,
watching my stomach ripple under my dress,
begging my cross-the-street neighbor 
(who was pregnant with #4) 
to tell me if this could possibly be labor.
She just looked at me and said,
“Diana, get yourself into the car and drive to Macha.”
So that is exactly what we did.
If you ever find yourself wondering how you might speed things along in early labor, I have a suggestion for you.
Find yourself a very bumpy dirt road and drive on it for about an hour.
I guarantee that things will pick up nicely.
We arrived at the hospital about 10:30 in the morning, went to a very nice room with a bath and my husband proceeded to talk to me about our travel plans for the summer, 
when our term of service would be ending.
I think I may have thrown the notebook in his face, 
but I can’t be certain. 
It’s all a bit of a blur.
At about 11:45, they wheeled me into the delivery room. 
Only, it wasn’t really a delivery delivery room,
it was a surgical suite.
The doctor was a thoracic surgeon and he did a whole lot of chest surgery out there in the bush.
They didn’t have a delivery table as such, 
just a surgical table,
and that sucker was hard.
His favorite nurse, who happened to be his wife,
gave me a small mask to put over my face with each
pain, a gas called Trilene.
I had no other medication.
At 12:12, just after noon on a glorious sunny summer day,
Lisa Ruth Trautwein entered the world,
a thick head of dark hair and a great set of lungs
announcing her presence.
And I distinctly remember sitting up on the table and
shouting, “This is fabulous! I want ten of these!”
As I said, stupid.
Sigh.
Winnie Worman, the doctor’s wife and an excellent nurse, holding our 1 day old daughter.
I stayed at the Mission until Thursday, eating in their home. Dick spent the first night with us both and then returned to school on Monday morning to greet his students.
The doctor himself (Robert Worman) with our beautiful girl.
With Winnie and Lisa, outside my room. The government asked them to add 5 private rooms and I got to be in one of them. The entire birthing experience cost us about eight dollars.
We had a rocky first night.
Because my husband was with me, the nursing staff left the three of us alone that night. I very quickly learned how much I did not know about mothering, 
and, once again, how much I did not know about being a woman who carries babies and gives birth.
My baby cried non-stop. Nothing would soothe her.
 And I was more than a little bit weak and wobbly from very normal blood loss that scared and surprised me.
Because, as I’ve said . . . I was terribly uninformed . . . 
Yup . . . stupid.
By 6:00 the next morning, 
I greeted the nurse on duty like a super-hero of some sort. She took one look at our girl and said, 
“Oh, this one loves to suck. I can see it. Try this pacifier.”
Glory be! It worked. From there on, it got easier.
In the picture above, Lisa is about 22 hours old.
I’d been up, showered, shampooed, curlered and combed out, (there were no portable hair dryers in the entire country of Zambia!) and in this picture, I am figuring out how to bathe an 8 1/2 pound human person.
Fortunately, she loved it. . . and so did I.
We brought her home and introduced her to our room and to the space that would eventually be her room.
Dick and I were both ecstatic, overwhelmed with gratitude,
sometimes anxious, but basically simply delighted
to be living with this entrancing creature.
She was, of course, the most precocious child in the history of humankind, smiling at 10 days, laughing big at two months, growing blond hair with dark tips.
Our African students adored her. I think she was the only newborn baby they had ever seen who had longish, straight hair, 
and they loved to touch her, to hold her, to stroke her head.
A Zambian friend loaned me her baby carrier and I used it as a pattern to make this one for Lisa and me.
There were no Ergo carriers in the 60’s.
In fact, American and European parents 
knew nothing about carrying babies on their bodies.
I learned about it from my African friends 
and I used this sling all the time.
From the time of Lisa’s birth until the time we left five and a half months later, I was called Bina Lisa by my African colleagues, most of whose first names I never really knew, as they were always called Bina —- (insert the name of their first-born child). I have been unable to find even one picture of Lisa with our African principal and his wife or with the students who earned pocket money by helping me with my ironing twice a week. (Remember ironing??) They are among a small set of pictures that we haven’t been able to locate as we’ve been scanning old memories into our computer.  But I have strong and happy memories of their warm acceptance of our baby and of the gigantic leap of respect our becoming parents engendered in the attitude of our students toward us.
This was Lisa’s favorite position, hanging upside down, sucking vigorously on that pacifier.
All five new babies near the end of our time in Zambia. 
Lisa was the only girl.
Our next door neighbors, Rosemary and Harry King, holding Lisa at a staff gathering. Harry took the black and white photos you see in this and other of these African Journey posts.

The Kings were from Virginia. Millie and Dave Dyck, our neighbors on the other side – and the parents of Michael, born 2 weeks after Lisa and pictured above and below, were from Canada. He went on to become the head of the Mission Board of the Mennonite Brethren Church in that country.
Michael must have been teasing Lisa to make her pout like that. 
Mom and babe on Easter Sunday, 1968. Is she not the cutest thing ever?? 
(Until her sister and brother were born, of course. To say nothing of all the grandkids…)
We did take a trip on the way home.
But by the time we actually left in June, that trip
had been shortened considerably.
We spent one week in Kenya, visiting some friends who were teaching there, then about 10 days in Switzerland (pictured above) and Germany, visiting my cousin and some friends from UCLA.
We were so smitten with our girl that we wanted to get her back to the arms of our loving families just as quickly as we could. And she was a great traveler, too . . . until our very last flight. From Copenhagen to Seattle, she cried almost the entire way, then settled down as we made the last leg into LAX. 
That little one was just plain done with airplanes.

We were greeted at the airport by grandparents, a great grandmother and a small horde of aunts, uncles and a smattering of cousins. 
It was a deliriously happy time and
I think we brought home the very best souvenir imaginable, don’t you? 

 Becoming a mother changed me in ways that are profound, 
in ways that I cannot articulate.
Carrying, birthing, nursing and tending three small persons is soul work, 
down deep living-life work, sometimes terrifying, always gratifying heart-work.
Meeting Lisa was my introduction to that work
and that meeting took place a long way 
from the only home I had known to that point.
There is a very real sense, however, that birthing her in that wonderful place cemented in my spirit, 
my heart, 
even in my body, 
this truth:
home is not a geographical place 
so much as it is an emotional space,
a spiritual point of connection and commitment.
All of her life, Lisa has been able to say,
“I was born in Africa.”
And we have been able to say,
“Africa was our home.”
And those two things go together.

I will happily join this long story with Jennifer and Duane:
 
And one week later, this will be my first entry in the Parent’Hood synchro blog, joining through Joy Bennett’s blog:



Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, community, family, God's gifts, Home, Marriage, memoir, ministry, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel, women, Wonderings in the World

A Book Review: The Bibledude.net Community Commentary Series – Philippians

August 30, 2012 By

There’s this dude I know – one of the very few people in the world that I actually call ‘dude’ – who is committed, hard-working, creative and kind. His name is Dan King and he hosts a remarkable website called Bibledude.net. He is one of a handful of bloggers that I have actually met in person and I’m here to tell you that he is the real deal. 

He lives clear across the country in Florida, loves his adorable family, travels regularly to Haiti to do compassionate work (and write about it), and he has written a book about that which I reviewed last year, called “The Unlikely Missionary.”  

Last fall, he got this interesting idea: invite Bibledude readers to consider contributing to a study series on the book of Philippians. I signed up – “Why not?” I thought. So I did a little studying, wrote down my ideas and joined them with the rest of the writers. 

Little did I know that Dan, cagey entrepreneur that he is, had a creative idea brewing. “Why not,” he wondered, “make this small commentary available as an e-book?” So he gathered a couple of his editors and added some word studies and a little historical background and voila! We’ve got ourselves an e-book. What looks like it might be the first of several in a Bibledude Community series.

What’s different about this commentary is that…it’s not a commentary (italics added to imply a heavy, academic, technical tome). Rather, it is a user-friendly, approachable, brief and helpful study guide for anyone wanting to extend their understanding of Paul’s words to the church at Philippi. 

And it launches TODAY. Please check it out over at Dan’s fine website.

Filed Under: bibledude.net, biblical studies, Book Review, community

Learning from the Humming Birds: A Photo Essay

August 4, 2012 By
It’s been a wild ride the past few weeks – a major writing project to complete, followed by two weeks living in community with the charismatic Benedictines, wonderful friends who think deeply 
about life and spirituality and who teach me so much – with their words and with their wisdom. 
Our last evening together (in each of the two 2-week school sessions over the last two summers) is spent sharing stories, skits, reflections and laughter. This year, I put together a slide show with a narration. 
And I promised my friends there that I would post it in this space. 
It will not show up as a slide show here, but what I can do in this space is interweave the narration a bit better than I could with the time constraints of a 4 minute Chris Rice piano version of “Come Thou, Fount.”

Fourteen days ago, I drove myself into the parking lot
of this beautiful retreat center, 
exhausted from too many deadlines and too few hours. 
I was not exactly ‘conscious.’*
Fumbling for words, dropping things, overwhelmed by the kindness of friends, 
I took a deep breath,
looked around at the curving architecture,
the quadrangled green space,
and thanked God that I had made it.
My room welcomed me to smallness and quietude, 
and I began to feel the almost imperceptible movement
of muscles unclenching, stomach settling 
and spirit stretching. The foggy mornings helped to slow the pace, 
gently covering all the sharp edges of the landscape – 
the one around me and the one inside me, too.
Morning walks helped point me to beauty –

light and shadow;color and texture and shape; pinks and yellows and purples and reds.

circles and oblongs and heart-shaped buds;

Afternoons found me tucked away in a small side garden, where leaves,
 backlit by the western sun, 
shimmered and shook with glory.
Water soothed and stilled me, running off the edge of a nearby fountain, 
abundant and nourishing. 
A deep-seated thirst found quenching.
Surrounding the gentle circles of water was a sea of deep blue lilies, 
held aloft by long stems moving in the afternoon breeze. 
As I sat and soaked it in, those blue spires began to dance
without the help of wind,
stirred instead by fragile wings,
wings that beat 2 to 3 thousand times a minute.
Tiny feathered flyers ducked and swiveled, 

hovered and darted,

 

long, thin beaks dipping deep for nectar in each periwinkle bloom 

To my right was one bright red feeder, and hanging far above my head, another. 
Sometimes one feisty bird at a time, they sipped and rested – gathering nourishment for the next few minutes of fevered flight.
And sometimes, they came in gangs,
dive-bombing one another to find a seat at the table. 
One small trio shared well and drank deeply.

And so did we.

I will remember these two weeks for many reasons –
for good conversations, for stellar teaching,
for the nourishment of worship and eucharist.

But I will remember the hummingbirds, too. Tiny carriers of creation goodness, reminders of the need to inhabit my own smallness.

For to see these glimpses of glory, I, too, must become small – small enough to sit still,
to be quiet,
to listen well,
            and to trust the goodness of God.

*The word ‘conscious’ in this context was an inside ‘joke’ (very feeble!) based upon much of what we learned together about becoming persons who can be more fully present to others and to God. Learning to be increasingly aware of ourselves and our own struggles/issues/shadows is often called ‘coming to consciousness.’ It is hard work to become more consciously aware of all the stuff that churns inside of us, often causing reactivity, defensiveness, projection-of-our-own-crap-onto-others. But the kind of work we strive to do with others in spiritual direction requires us to do our own work first. Much of what we learned together over these two years was directed at helping us become increasingly aware of when, where and how (and how frighteningly often!) we are not aware, not in tune with our own spirit or with God’s. I feel like I am just beginning some days! 

I will join this with a few friends over the next day or so – most likely Ann Voskamp, Laura Boggess, L.L. Barkat, Michelle DeRusha, Jennifer Dukes Lee and Jen Ferguson.

On In Around button

And with Cheryl Smith, too – if this linky works –

 


Filed Under: Birds, community, personal journey, Photo Essay, Spiritual Direction

The Pulse of a Church: Faithfulness

July 10, 2012 By
 Yesterday was one of those days for me.
One of those puzzle-clicking days,
when the pieces come together
and lock into place,
creating a picture that is both
recognizable and beautiful.
 It’s taken about 24 hours for me to begin to see
how that happened in my heart, in my spirit.
And I’m not sure that I can find the words to tell you about it.
This much I know.
It wasn’t about the building,
although I love that place
and am grateful for every inch of it.
 It wasn’t even about the worship service,
although some pieces of that service helped
the picture to come together with focus and intention.
Mostly, it was about the people.
ALL the people of the long, interesting,
sometimes exhausting day that was yesterday. 

Our pastor is back from vacation and that’s a good thing.
And he brought a word that he’d been pondering 
for many weeks.
And that’s a good thing, too.
And part of that word was definitely a piece
of the lovely jigsaw that has been coming to life in my heart.
Reflecting on a brief sojourn in Egypt,
he said this about the Christians he met there:
“The future depends on their faithfulness.”
And I thought – YES!
This is the age-old story of our faith,
this is what Jesus kept saying to us,
in parable and story and miracle. 
This is what God modeled for the people of Israel,
this is what the epistles urge the burgeoning
movement of Christ-lights to remember:
Be faithful, even as God is faithful. 
Learn to listen well, and to do good.
Learn to lean into love.
Learn to care for one another.
Live as though every single thing you do matters
in the Big Picture of life. 
And teach your children all of this.
As I listened to that word, I took a look around me. 

About 275 people were gathered in the same space,
people of all ages, from newborns to folks in their 90’s.
A group of six led us in worship –
a father and his 16-year-old daughter on guitar and vocals,
a pastor’s 16-year-old daughter on vocals,
a professor father and young-adult son on piano and guitar,
a former staff member on bass.
The last number of the opening set was an a capella 
version of, “Down to the River to Pray,”
and when those two young women
and two middle-aged men joined their voices
in gorgeous 4-part harmony – 
a small window to heaven opened before me.
And a piece of the puzzle clicked.
Then our Moment for Mission was an interview 
with a son of this church and his gracious, articulate wife.
They gave up lucrative jobs in Orange County to
use their gifts in computer science and music,
working with Wycliffe in Texas.
Their report was wonderful, encouraging, humbling.
And another piece fell into its slot.
I listened to one of the most beautiful prayers 
I’ve heard in months, 
offered by a man who moved here 
about a dozen years ago to retire. 
He has jumped into ministry with both feet – 
music and tutoring and working with our littlest children.
Click.
Then I watched this happen.  
 Every week, the kids are invited to come and sit on the steps,
where the pastor has a special word or project just for them.
Yesterday, this beautiful ‘welcome wagon’ 
was wheeled down the center aisle.
 It was built by hand as an Eagle Scout project – 
and an act of gratitude to the church – 
by a recent high-school graduate, 
a kid I’ve watched grow up since he was three years old.
And then builder and pastor and seven little kids
laid hands on that cart, and dedicated it to the
service of the Kingdom of God. 
By now, I’m just beginning to catch a glimpse of the
design taking shape inside my heart.
 
We rushed home from church to welcome our small group,
this month including kids, lunch and swim time.
My husband is 70, Iris is 2, the rest of us fall
somewhere on the spectrum between those two extremes.
We had a grand time together –
sitting in the shade, enjoying one another’s company. 
Two of the women in our group have endured
brain anomalies; two of the families have
weathered tough problems with their kids;
all of us believe that the single greatest task
to which we are called is the care and tending
of faith and faithfulness in ourselves and in our children,
followed closely by serving others in the name of Jesus.
I had to leave our gathering a little early,
and I had to leave for a hard, sad reason.
Another son of our church had recently died,
tragically and too soon.
His mother and dad are among my favorite 
people on this earth – gentle servants who set out
communion month after month,
who greet folks when they arrive on Sundays,
who share themselves quietly and humbly.
I wanted to be there to remember their boy,
to offer words of prayer and committal,
to acknowledge that sometimes,
the circle is broken too early, too early.  
This, too, was a piece of the puzzle –
a darker piece, but an important one.
Last night, and again this morning,
I thought through that entire Sabbath day.
I reflected on the many facets of the picture
taking shape inside my heart,
and I began to see it for the soft yet strong,
slow-growing but sturdy,
sometimes weary but always winsome
picture that it truly is,
and it looks a whole lot like Jesus.
 
Sometimes it is easy to be critical of the church –
I will readily admit to frustration, impatience
and disappointment 
with how slowly things change, 
with how stuck we can sometimes get.
BUT…
Yesterday was a quietly unfolding gift to me,
all of it – 
the lovely stuff and the terribly painful stuff.
It became a deep and personal portrait reminding me that
 faithfulness sometimes looks like this:
the generations standing together,
singing together,
working together,
giving together,
mourning together. 

In fact, I guess I’d say that’s exactly what
faithfulness looks like. 
And it is beautiful.

Joining this tonight with Michelle and Laura,
tomorrow with Jen and Jennifer and Wednesday with Duane:

Filed Under: community, hope, personal journey, The Church, worship

A Sacramental Life

July 2, 2012 By
It’s a long drive from here to there, about 110 miles.
And I take a similar one every 2-3 weeks to see my mom.
But this past weekend,
I traveled those miles to make a different kind of connection,
one that spans nearly 30 years,
a lot of living, and miles of change in each of our lives.
We enjoyed the sunshine,
we sneaked in an extra chair at a very high-brow establishment 
(just because we could),
we laughed and we talked and we ate. 
Yes, we look a little bit older than the last time we did this.
And yes, there have been some stresses added to each of 
our lives in the months between our last visit and this one.
But what I carry with me into this late evening hour 
is one overarching truth, this bracing reality:
friendship across time is a holy thing,
a sacramental thing,
a gift of God to be savored, 
enjoyed, 
and relished.
I carried the sweetness of our time together all the way home,
through 45 extra minutes of snarled traffic,
fatigue and stiff knees. 
“How wonderful, how beautiful, 
when brothers and sisters get along!
   It’s like costly anointing oil
      flowing down…”
the psalmist wrote.
And the fragrance of our time was indeed,
‘wonderful and beautiful.’ 
This morning brought us back to our community,
gathering in worship to
to hear a beautiful and finely tuned exposition 
of the Word from the pulpit, 
to share in bread and cup. 
There were three relatively small things that
happened today that have stayed with me, 
late into this evening.
Three things that somehow feel woven
of the same cloth as yesterday’s gathering of friends
at a classic old hotel in South Pasadena,
three things that seem
woven of sacramental cloth. 
 
Today, as Pastor Jon stepped into the pulpit,
he did something we’ve never done before.
He asked us to stand, 
to reach out and hold the hand of the person
next to us, even if that person was across the aisle.
Then he said this:
“Doing this probably feels more than a little bit
awkward to you. I’m here to tell you that  
that is exactly the right posture 
for hearing the Word of God.”
And he proceeded to read the text of the 
morning, taken from the book of James. 
And we held each others’ hands 
and we listened to the Word.
We placed ourselves under that Word,
physically, literally and spiritually.
And as the words from that ancient epistle
rolled in gentle waves over our heads,
I could sense the awkwardness dissipating,
the unity and connection between us
taking shape and form and beauty in our midst.
It was a sacramental moment.
 
 At the conclusion of the preached word,
Jon stepped down from the pulpit to the table,
preparing to serve the people of God with
the Bread of Life and the Cup of Salvation.
As he did so, our Pastor to Students joined him.
Jon gently unfolded his 
and placed it around his neck.
And as Lisa came forward, I could see 
that she wore the one she received
at her ordination two years ago.
Together, they prayed over and distributed the
torn bread and cups of purple juice to
an assortment of council members
who brought them to us. 
We are not a ‘formal’ church.
I have never worn my black robe there,
nor has any other member of the pastoral staff.
But somehow, just that small, simple,
act of draping the ‘yolk of Christ’
around their necks, and over their clothes,
added an extra layer of meaning and depth
to this holy moment in the life of our congregation.
It was a sacramental gesture, 
 rich with reminder
that the Table of the Lord is a holy place,
that the food we eat 
and the drink we share
are set apart, 
consecrated, for our nourishment and
encouragement on the way. 

Our children worship with us every week
for part of the service.
But on Communion Sunday,
they are in worship the entire hour.
Sometimes this makes for a noisier congregation,
and that is just fine.
In fact, it is welcome.
Today, after the benediction,
after the postlude,
after most of the congregants streamed out
the back door into the warm California sunshine,
a third small surprise brought brief tears to my eyes.
A small blond boy named Kai
came quietly into our pew as we leaned across it,
talking with some friends we hadn’t seen in a while.
He picked up our used communion cups, 
nodded his head and 
went searching for a few more.
Just a few moments later,
the four of us who were chatting caught a glimpse
of something up front.
Kai and his big sister Ruby were taking a stack of
used communion cups and very carefully
setting them around the rim of
our beautiful, artist-designed glass baptismal font.
“I think,” said our friend,
“that maybe Ruby is doing something
wonderful with the sacraments this morning. 
Maybe even something we’ve not seen before.”
I looked across the sanctuary and gasped a little.
The effect was beautiful –
the glass bowl shimmered,
the empty cups shone,
the sweet girl was so intent and careful with her work.
It was a sacramental act of found art,
a beautiful picture of the Body of Christ
at its very best.
Word and water,
bread and cup,
contemplation and action –
all of it woven together into a beautiful
garment of praise. 
As followers of Jesus,
we are invited into this whole-cloth,
beautifully woven sacramental life.
We are called to live that life as if
every moment is holy,
every person is a saint,
every gesture is an offering,
every common thing is an altar.
Because this is the truth,
the deep, beautiful, holy truth.
THIS life, this one life –
with its joys and its sorrows,
its gifts and its burdens –
it is a sacrament.
Glory be.  
Joining with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Duane today for their 
lovely invitations to share what we’re learning, what we’re thankful for,
what surprise us, what Sunday teaches us and how we see the promises of God at work.
Somehow, they all seem pertinent to these scattered recollections today. 
I’ll also tuck it in with Laura and her Playdates with God.

 

Filed Under: community, friendship. personal journey, Sunday Reflections, worship
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